


On Names

by noun



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Toys, name kink, unresponsive partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kvothe/Bast. </p><p>He complies, moves so that the air hits his back and has a chance to cool that sweat simultaneously as his leaking cock presses into the sheets. There is a creak as Kvothe climbs up onto the bed, straddles him from behind while still fully clothed. The mattress almost complains with it, Bast thinks, trying to tell them this is not a bed for two full grown men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Names

“Please,” he says, strained and high and he does not know what he is begging for, or why he is even speaking. He has not been asked not to speak- his Reshi does not ask much of him in things like this, just firm directions relating to where he must lie and how; the placement of his arms and the strain of his calves– and that he must keep his glamour going, as best as he can. So for now, as he shudders and there is a sudden twist deep inside him of a slightly phallic metal shape, it is seemingly human feet that rest against the sheets.

He makes his not-toes curl, wondering if that illusion will make his mentor pleased or annoyed or any emotion, really.

Bast wants to look at Kvothe’s face, and see something other than what he knows is there- calm, calculating, almost cold in a sense of pure detachment.

Kvothe is dressed, he is not.

Kvothe shows no sign of being interested, his cock most certainly not straining against the fabric of his pants, his cheeks bearing no spots of color. Bast looks down at himself, sees the thin, wet trails of precome wind their way down as his hips cant up, holding them in the air as his shoulders and feet carry most of his weight to give Kvothe implied easier access to his hole.

Kvothe is in control, he is not.

“R-reshi, Kvothe, please–“ he says, whines, and again his voice is thin and the metaphor that comes to mind is glass thick as a strand of hair- he has movement but he is so close to breaking he can’t even be sure of his own— potentially imagined, he will admit— strength. Then it hits him- he used his Reshi’s name, broken the unspoken taboo. He has never dared say it out loud even when he is alone, pleasuring himself. His lips seal, hips still.

Kvothe’s breath stills as well, his hand rock solid and immobile as ever- not like it was doing much anyway. 

Something flickers behind the other man’s green eyes (they are a neutral shade, Bast sees, thinks the man is controlling that). His hair is sweat-sticky and clings to the back of his neck and it distracts him for a moment.

The tool Kvothe is using is beautiful, he had gasped in pleasure and delight when it had first been shown to him, clapping his hands together in pure delight. Sleek, lovely copper, with a layer of silver over it. It had likely been sent away for, made by someone who had no idea what it was for. His Reshi must have designed it, with the gentle increase of size it had down to the base, the ridges that flared out, one every finger-length or so, getting thicker with the increase of the toy.

He had thought at the time that it had been a sign that Reshi was relenting, was going to take those sessions further, was going to actually touch him. It had started on a night spans and spans ago. He was taking care of his needs, as any healthy young man would do, hand firm around his cock with a bit of slick in his palm and his mind firmly on the rump of one of the girls from the village.  And then the door had opened, and Bast had scrambled to cover himself with a sheet.

‘No,’ Kvothe had said, as Bast turned bright red and began to mumbled out frantic apologies. He had watched wide eyed as his teacher had pulled a chair, sat mere feet from him, and said, almost in the same voice as he asked Bast to fetch this-or-that for a customer, to keep going.

At first, he had just stared, slack-jawed. Then, he had come back to himself and tried to put on a show with it, all theatrical moans and shifts of hips, come-hither eyes. Kvothe’s face had remained unamused, uninterested. He switched tactics, fumbled about- he was confused. He did not know what his mentor wanted. Then, of course, he spoke, perhaps took pity on Bast. ‘Like I am not here,’ he had said, and Bast listened, and did as he was told. 

Kvothe had, of course, left once Bast spilled over himself, put the chair back where it had been. There was no mention of what had gone on the next day, nor the next. He was not surprised when the other man came in to the room the next time he had been jacking off. Bast simply pretended he was not there, over and over again. 

And that was how it had been until the purchase of the toy. They had been alone together when the brown paper package arrived and when it was opened.  Kvothe had picked it up, let the silver shine in the light, looked over to him, then wrapped it back up before asking him about a book he was supposed to have read. 

It had been brought out before tonight, of course, and he had been pleased when his Reshi had fucked him with it, though there was the power division between them of Kvothe observing and Bast throwing himself into it like a needy whore. Quite literally throwing himself onto it- he prepared himself and then fucked himself on it. Reshi’s hand simply held it, either behind him as he fucked it on all fours, feeling the glide of those ridges, or, like tonight, under him, impaling himself. Their skin never touched. 

Tonight was different simply because tonight was the first night he had said anything besides ‘please’ and ‘more’. 

He had broken the worse of the taboos around this- he had brought Kvothe into this, had made it seem real to a man who was obviously trying to be as detached from it all as possible.

The toy jolts, moves, slides further into him. He hears, almost as if it is far off, Kvothe take a breath.

There is a pause. His Reshi speaks.

“Roll over.”

He complies, moves so that the air hits his back and has a chance to cool that sweat simultaneously as his leaking cock presses into the sheets. There is a creak as Kvothe climbs up onto the bed, straddles him from behind while still fully clothed. The mattress almost complains with it, Bast thinks, trying to tell them this is not a bed for two full grown men.

Then Kvothe takes hold of the toy again, but not before slapping his ass, hard- he feels it jostle inside him and he keens with the pleasure of it. His Reshi fucks him with the metal dick, and it is hard and abrupt and mechanical in the timing of the thrusts and not at all what he expected.

It feels good, though. Kvothe learns fast with Bast giving him vocal cues of moans and screams, hitting the right spot again and again until the pleasure turns to almost pain but is still good enough that he doesn’t say stop. That they have no guests is for once a good thing, with Bast howling like this and his glamour completely off, abandoned.

There is a hand on his hips in the next moment and it pulls him up so that with shaky arms he can brace himself on all fours. That hand then goes to his cock, starts touching him with strokes almost perfectly in time with the fucking he is getting with the toy. His cheeks feel wet, he must be crying, or at least getting the moisture in his eyes pounded out. He can’t think in the next moment, his ears and mind all cotton-y and then time becomes an abstract concept.

He comes.

Bast returns to himself with his head to the side, aware that his mouth is open and that he is drooling, slightly, by the wet spot on the corner of his mouth. He is being held up still, with his ass in the air and his arms all askew but still on the bed proper, if limp. His fingertips tingle. The toy is still going in and out of his ass, almost as if it was powering itself through a perfect one-two tempo thrust. He can feel Kvothe’s body against him, still clothed, still mechanical in his actions.  

He is fae, he is a prince, he will take what is given to him, especially if it is a thing he has been dreaming of for quite a while. So, he raises himself back up on those shaky arms– feels his Reshi still for a second when he does so– and lets out a soft moan when the change in his angle causes the toy to hit just right again. 

The pace starts up again and it is slow and tender, if being fucked with a metal cock can be that. Bast thinks it can be, and rocks into it. He is young and terribly receptive to the idea of this, he warms again soon, makes soft sounds in the back of his throat. His hooves scrape against the sheet as he strains, strains against the pleasure and the slick warm hand that holds his cock, and he dares to speak again.

“Please, Kvothe, Reshi, please, please.” He’s frantic again before long and nearly shrieks in feral anger when the toy is removed from him because no, it simply isn’t acceptable and he is going to claw Kvothe or at least give him a good solid bite for that. It is his plan and he is planning on following through with it until he listens.

Kvothe’s breath is nearly as shaky as his’, and there is the rustle of cloth and cursing before the other man speaks.

“The slick- where is it?” 

He is going to get fucked properly, Kvothe is actually going to fuck him and it is going to be wonderful and delicious and he will make him wish he had not done it sooner. Bast fumbles through the sheets and finds the jar and pushes it back to his mentor. The seconds are long and awful but delightful to hear as Kvothe removes the lid and gives himself a few strokes before he lines himself up. Bast must look a mess and he knows it, his entrance likely red and his ass red from where he has been slapped but oh he will be so nice and warm for his Reshi.

He makes another noise as Kvothe slides in and it matches the low moan of his mentor though an entirely different pitch. Kvothe is rough with him, abandoning his cock and grabbing his hips and using him, impaling himself inside again and again and Bast loves it. He gives himself over to the animalisticness of it all, croons and shakes and laughs at the foolishness of any culture that would shame this. He is in his element, he thinks, he has what he wants. Kvothe leans full over him at one point, presses his chest to Bast’s back and grabs a mouthful of his shoulder and bites while his hips piston. Bast composes a list of shirts he will wear to show the bruise off.

He doesn’t care to postulate on how long it is before Kvothe spills inside him, and it is warm and fertile and good, and he will have to find a way to taste him some other time. His own sluggish hands go down to his cock to bring himself to a well deserved second orgasm of the night, but are batted away but Kvothe’s more nimble ones. He is moved onto his side, spooning with his Reshi curled around him. He croons softly as the other man finishes him off, wiping his hands on the sheet then throwing it off the bed.

Perhaps he should have broken that taboo sooner.

He can pinpoint the exact moment Kvothe falls asleep, or near to it. Bast does not want to sleep, he wants to bask in this for as long as he can. It must be two or so hours after they finish when he feels Kvothe huff a breath against his shoulder and tighten his hold.

“Deena,” his lover murmurs. Deena, he thinks, blindsided. Deena’s ghost haunts him now, haunts them now. “Deena would have liked you,” his mentor goes on, a low rumble in his chest. Bast gapes, hunting for words. “You’re not good at telling when I’m asleep. There’s room in the future for that.” Another huff of breath, Kvothe adjusts his position. “Sleep, we’ll have time in the morning.”


End file.
